


Double or Nothing

by manic_intent



Series: Martingale [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Full spoilers, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega!Santino, That A/B/O fic that starts at the end of the 2nd film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 09:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11033472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: John’s grip on the gun was steady, the pistol trained on Santino, not wavering in the least even when Winston stepped forward, trying to calm him down. Taunting John Wick had been juvenile—possibly even suicidal—but in this moment, balanced between life and death and ruin, Santino could not begin to care. He smiled.Once, his mother had called a smile an omega’s last line of defense:de-escalation, she used to preach,just be calm. Santino and Gianna had watched her die, choking on her goddamned calm. Their father had thought—incorrectly, as it turned out—that she had cheated on him, and their mother’s own bodyguard had shot her in the chest, point blank, over the kitchen table. It had been an early and valuable lesson in trust and power.





	Double or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> And here we return to my not-so-secret favourite kink… Ahaha… The new, nameless dog needed a turn in a ‘verse.

John’s grip on the gun was steady, the pistol trained on Santino, not wavering in the least even when Winston stepped forward, trying to calm him down. Taunting John Wick had been juvenile—possibly even suicidal—but in this moment, balanced between life and death and ruin, Santino could not begin to care. He smiled. 

Once, his mother had called a smile an omega’s last line of defense: _de-escalation_ , she used to preach, _just be calm_. Santino and Gianna had watched her die, choking on her goddamned calm. Their father had thought—incorrectly, as it turned out—that she had cheated on him, and their mother’s own bodyguard had shot her in the chest, point blank, over the kitchen table. It had been an early and valuable lesson in trust and power. 

Abruptly, John sniffed, frowning, turning his head, to the left and right. “What’s that?” he muttered, and breathed more deeply. Scenting. He was scenting the air. Santino glanced around the dining room, surprised. Like humanity in general, most of the guests and staff were betas, including Winston. There was another alpha near the door, a freelancer, and an alpha in a corner table behind Santino, both alone. Alphas didn’t play well with others unless they had to. And—

Ah. The effort of sprinting here, the exertion in the museum. The blockers were starting to wear off, perhaps. The other alphas hadn’t reacted—yet. Gamble, and hope to play them off against John? The odds weren’t good. John was entirely capable of cutting through everyone in the room to get to Santino if he wanted to: hell, he’d already gone through Santino’s men _and_ a string of hired assassins.

Or… 

“Mister Wick,” Santino said, still smiling. De-escalation. “Maybe we should talk. Somewhere quieter. No guns, no weapons. One hour. After that, I’ll step outside the Continental. Everyone keeps within the rules.” 

“Talk for an hour? About what?” 

Santino shrugged. “Life? Sports? Your dog?” 

This time, the gun did waver, and for a moment, staring down the barrel, Santino was sure that he’d drawn a bad hand, his luck finally coming up short. Then John sucked in a deep breath, and dropped the pistol loudly on the table. Beside him, Winston closed his eyes briefly. 

“Fine,” John spat. “One hour.” 

“A room, if I may,” Santino said, patting himself down for a coin, but Winston shook his head. 

“It’s on the house.” He took a keycard from his suit, handing it over. If Winston was concerned in the least, it didn’t show on his face.

John was silent in the lift, frowning to himself. He stank of sweat and cordite and blood, the charnel-scent of a beast of war, and it made Santino’s mouth water. His hands, knuckles bloodied, clenched and unclenched. On the top floor, as Santino let them into the room provided, John finally growled, “I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, excellent. Then we save some time.” 

“It won’t work.” 

“Good, then you get to kill me in an hour.” Santino loosed his tie, unknotting it and tugging it off, dropping it on the carpet, unbuttoning his collar as they walked into the penthouse suite’s living room. John slouched into an armchair, wincing, and watched Santino with furious eyes as Santino angled over to the kitchenette, soaping his hands and rubbing his neck, washing off the rest of the blockers. When he dried off, John was sniffing the air again, his eyes narrowed. 

“What,” John growled, “you think I’ll jump your ass and then forgive you at the end of it? Please.” 

“Probably not,” Santino agreed, and stretched out on the couch next to the armchair, his back to the arm rest. “You still smelled me through the blockers.” 

“You probably sweated through them.” 

“I’ve been sitting in that dining room for an hour. The other alphas in there didn’t even react.” 

John grunted, though he looked away. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still gonna kill you in an hour.” 

“I probably shouldn’t have tried to kill you,” Santino conceded. “But I didn’t expect the Bowery King to help you.” 

John curled his lip. “You got overconfident.” 

“Confidence is a necessary trait for anyone who wants to lead the Camorra.” 

“Should’ve left your sister well alone.” John paused, then continued, bitterly, “Should’ve left _me_ alone.” 

“Regret is poisonous. I try not to make it a habit. Trying to have you killed wasn’t a mistake because it didn’t work. It’s a mistake because it would’ve been a waste.” Santino tapped a finger against his lower lip. “You’re not going to ask me to call off the contract?” 

“Even if you do, it’s not going to stop me from killing you in an hour.” 

“Fifty minutes now,” Santino agreed, and his amusement clearly disconcerted John: he glanced at the window, and back. Anyone else would have accused Santino of trying to cheat. John obviously didn’t care. If Santino stepped outside the Continental, he was dead, come hell or high water. 

Well. Death had ceased to hold any real fear for him since he watched it come for his mother in the heart of her house. If it had, he wouldn’t have tried to kill the reaper himself. John might be tired now, and injured, but he was implacable: with him alive, Santino’s death was only a matter of time. Santino breathed deeply, trying not to make it too obvious. His senses were heightening, the world growing sharper into focus. The gun he had tucked into the holster against his spine seemed to press harder against his shirt. Five, ten minutes. He could shoot John from here, easily, and he would be quicker than a distracted alpha. 

“Still haven’t named your dog?” Santino asked. 

John blinked at him. “Not yet.”

“Why not? That’s usually the first order of business. Don’t tell me you put ‘Dog’ on his vet certificate.” 

“Doesn’t need a name.” 

“Doesn’t need a name, or doesn’t need a name from you?” Santino guessed, and tried his best to hide his satisfaction when John flinched. “Ah. Some part of you is ready for death. You’ve been ready for a long time. You think the dog will go to a new owner, sooner or later. So why keep fighting?” 

“Not gonna give you the satisfaction. Or anyone.” 

“Did you buy the dog?”

“Rescued it. It was gonna be destroyed. Next day.” 

“Ugly thing.”

“It’s not so bad.” 

“And a very misunderstood breed. Often mischaracterised or mis-identified. Dogs generally aren’t vicious because they’re born that way. People make them that way. Did you feel some kind of kinship?”

“Ain’t that complicated. ‘Sides,” John growled, staring pointedly at him, “I think some people do get born fucking vicious.” 

“Quite likely.” Santino said, with a mocking nod. “Were you?” 

John scowled, clearly thinking over whether he wanted to answer, then he sniffed the air again, blinking slowly. “You’re really just gonna talk to me for an hour.”

“Forty-five minutes now.”

“The fuck?” John said, rubbing a hand over his sweat-bedraggled hair. “If you think the cavalry’s coming, you’re wrong. I didn’t kill Ares, but she won’t be saving anyone’s ass anytime soon. And the rest of your kill squad is dead.”

“I appreciate the courtesy. On Ares’ behalf.”

“I didn’t have anything against her.” John frowned at him. “Fine. Yeah. I was an angry kid. Enlisted in the marines, thought they’d straighten me out. Didn’t work. Got worse, even. Did a couple of tours, nearly punched out a Captain, got sent home. Dishonourable discharge. Couldn’t hold a job. Was homeless by the time Tarasov found me.”

Santino nodded. It had been a violent meeting, a legendary one: John had impressed Tarasov enough to take John under his wing, sober him up, then promote him through the ranks. Even his father had mentioned it once. “Really a pencil?” 

“Isn’t that hard. A pencil’s a sharpened stick.” 

“And the anger’s still there.” 

John made a harsh, choked sound, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Thought it was gone for a while. So many years, sometimes it was the only thing that kept me alive. With it gone, I thought maybe… I was ready to die quietly, you _assholes_.” 

It would be easy to shoot. Now. Face Winston’s wrath, maybe, but as a member of the High Table, he couldn’t be excommunicated by anything less than a High Table vote. Granted, he’d be punished somehow, have to pay reparations, perhaps, but Santino would have his life and John would have his death. 

“I know you have a gun,” John said, without looking up, and Santino stiffened. “Give me some credit.”

“It’s not an uncommon accessory for patrons of the Continental.” 

“Could smell it on you in the lift.” John was breathing deeper now, in slow gasps. “You’re cycling into heat.” 

“A fight-or-flight reaction.” It was coming on early, the world crystalline. He could _sense_ John like this, on a level he couldn’t describe in human terms. “It won’t have cycled far enough in forty minutes to affect you. If at all.”

“Was that your plan? Try to shoot me here?”

“Would it work?”

“Probably not,” John said, blunt as ever. His feet were flat on the ground, and had been since the beginning. He’d been ready to dive to the side since the moment he’d chosen where to sit. Santino played it out in his mind. He’d be faster, John slowed by injury. But if he missed, he’d be dead. Not good odds, without the element of surprise. 

Slowly, Santino drew the gun, removing the magazine, which he tossed across the room. Then he left the pistol on the table. “Happy now?” 

John blinked at him, thrown again. “I… what?”

“There’s a first aid kit somewhere. You stink of blood. Why don’t you get cleaned up?” Santino said, wrinkling his nose, and John rolled his eyes, but got unsteadily to his feet. Santino tried to hide his surprise. Something had worked. A suggestion, connecting. 

John sat on the tub in the bathroom, stripping off his jacket, inspecting his wound, then he glanced up sharply as Santino followed him in, hands upraised, palms up. The kit was over the sink. John said nothing as Santino went through the motions, his own jacket and vest discarded, sleeves rolled up, cleaning up and stitching wounds closed, alcohol swabs left bloody in the tub. Santino probably wasn’t as gentle as he should be, but John didn’t complain, swallowing a couple of painkillers dry. 

“Time’s nearly up,” John said gruffly, as Santino washed his hands in the sink. The reminder made him startle. He’d actually forgotten. Suggestion had worked both ways. He had a knife in the inner lining of his jacket, hung at the door, but John was turning him around, crowding him against the sink, hands braced against the marble at either side of his hips. “Still don’t get your game.” 

“Maybe there wasn’t one.”

“Give me some credit.” John leaned in, and Santino tried not to tense up as John sniffed his throat, lips brushing, teeth far too close. Dully, he was aware that he was wet. When had that happened? 

“I was going to shoot you with that gun,” Santino admitted, and hated how breathy his voice was, pinned so close to an alpha. John was tall, and though he wasn’t built like a wrestler there was still a raw power to his build, unbroken by time and Santino’s best efforts. 

“I figured. So why didn’t you?”

“I thought _you_ were going to shoot me. In the dining room.” 

“Winston would’ve been pissed.”

“Would that have stopped you?”

John rumbled an answer that Santino couldn’t catch. Fingers curled around the back of his neck, and the kiss was more like a blow; Santino cut his lip over John’s teeth and bit him back and let John chase the blood on his tongue, breaths and lust compressed between them. John’s moan was ragged, reluctant, his teeth bared as he kissed Santino again, narrowly threading ardour and violence. Just the way Santino liked it. 

“Could smell you,” John hissed, as Santino nipped his jaw, the gunpowder-scent sharp from the flecks on his cheek, “on your knees like that, fixing me up—”

“Hour’s nearly up,” Santino dared to say, his arms curled over John’s shoulders. He smirked when John rolled his eyes and hauled Santino up onto the black stone of the sink bench, tugging off his shoes. “If you knot me here, we’re both going to regret it.”

“Who said you’re gonna get my knot?” Shoes off, belt next, then John was peeling off trousers and underwear, fingers clumsy with impatience. 

“I like the odds,” Santino said, and yelped as John growled and jerked him to the edge of the bench, his head knocking against the large mirror. He bit out a curse that cut into a hiss as John knelt, sideburns scratchy on Santino’s thighs as he pressed his tongue hard against the wet seam under Santino’s balls. Fingers twisting into John’s hair got a groan, then John was licking roughly into him, breathing in strangled huffs, devouring what he could. The beast of war, hunting different game. Santino yowled into his first release, shocked by it, hauling John against him as pleasure racked through him in waves. 

They stripped down, but didn’t make it to the bed. Santino got as far as the couch before John was tackling him to the floor, wincing as it pulled at his stitches, pinning Santino to the carpet when Santino tried to twist around. “Wait,” John said, and turned them over, pulling Santino up onto his lap. “If I fuck you properly I’m probably gonna end up bleeding everywhere.”

It was Santino’s turn to roll his eyes. “And they say chivalry is dead.” He found that he didn’t care. The reaper was beneath his thighs, close enough to bite, and he was a lover of chaos. Santino twisted around, his back to John, arching, giving him a view as he guided John into him, his body opening for it with reluctance, wet as he was. John was _big_. Santino shivered through it, gasping, and an arm was curling over his waist, lips pressed against his ear. 

“Doesn’t feel like you’ve had an alpha before.” John’s voice was strangled and thin. 

“What gave that away?” Santino said, too distracted to evade, and John let out a huff of surprise, going still, to Santino’s annoyance. “Fuck you, _stronzo_. I’m not a virgin, if that’s what fucking concerns you.” 

“Didn’t say anything about that.” John said, though he got a hand around Santino’s cock, then made an inquiring sound as Santino grabbed his wrist, shoving his fingers lower. Rough fingers fit tightly between them, with John balls deep, and Santino purred as they stroked stretched and swollen flesh. Getting him wetter. “Was this your game then?” 

“I’m beginning to regret not shooting you,” Santino said, though he let John tug him flush, the alpha mouthing over his neck, licking over the scent glands. “You talk too much.”

“You’re the one who wanted to talk.”

“If you’re too damaged to fuck me properly then this is a waste of my time.”

“Whose fault is that, hm?” Hands curled over his hips, urging Santino to move. He did, with a show of reluctance, careful not to rub against any injuries. If his last hour in life was running into overtime, he wanted it to last. John stroked him, easing deft fingers against him, sometimes angling up to fondle his balls. Santino braced himself against John’s thigh and his good knee, fucking himself on the thick cock stretching him open. He could feel the knot coming, a widening mass, a dense swelling that caught briefly against his hole and John’s fingers and made him whimper, choking out little wounded sounds. 

It was instinctive. John was purring against him in a low rumble, licking at scent glands, rubbing his cheek—still wet from Santino’s juices—against Santino’s shoulders, his spine. John pressed into him with little thrusts, even though it had to be hurting him, and finally held Santino down, unsettlingly silent as the knot caught fast. It _hurt_. John murmured soothing sounds as Santino squirmed and swore and twisted on it in animal panic for a second until dopamine kicked in, orgasm an erratic coda, drawn over pain. 

“Probably should have done this on the bed,” John said, as they caught their breaths on their flanks. The carpet was soft, at least. 

“Whose fault is that?” Santino grumbled, and slapped John over a bruise on his thigh. “How long before your… goes down?” 

John hummed thoughtfully. “Not sure. Haven’t done this with an omega since the marines.” 

“Fucking wonderful.” Santino rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to sleep. If you’re going to shoot me, give me another hour.” 

John snorted, and nipped the back of his neck, but said nothing, his breathing shallow, and Santino dozed, his back turned on death, rolling the dice.

#

Santino had just managed to teach Dog to roll over when John limped back with two takeaway cups of coffee, sitting beside Santino on the park bench. “Nobody tried to stab me in the queue. Assume you’ve called off the contract.”

“You sound disappointed.” Santino had called off the contract on his first day into his heat, sleepy in bed with John dozing against him, knotted tight. 

“How’s Ares?”

“Fine. Got herself to a hospital. Cassian’s going to be fine as well,” Santino said, tickling Dog behind the ears. “You’re surprisingly sentimental. It’ll be bad for your health someday.” 

“Hasn’t killed me yet.” John sat close, their knees touching. Even when he’d gone to fetch coffee, he’d stayed protectively within line of sight. Instinct could be a real bitch, post-heat. “Still wish I shot you in the dining room.”

“That would have been dramatic.” 

“You don’t care.”

“I was prepared to die. You don’t do well in this line of business if you’re afraid of death.” 

John eyed him, his expression always disconcertingly blank when the violence within him was banked at rest. “Think Gianna would’ve done better than you as the boss.” 

Santino glared at him, baited despite himself. Despite everything, he _did_ now miss his sister. A little. “We’ll see. You did do a lot of damage. Left Italy in disarray and destroyed my standing in New York.”

“Good.” 

“On the other hand, since you also wiped out the Tarasovs, including most of the remnants, and half of the local freelancers, my only problem now is the Bowery King.” 

“I’m not going to kill him for you.” John scratched at his jaw, watching joggers go past, oblivious to anything but their ear pods. “Hell, I’m still not sure whether I’m going to shoot you.” 

Santino sipped his espresso. “Decide soon. I hate suspense. In the meantime, you’ve screwed up my cycle, but my next heat will probably come on in a few weeks anyway. If you’re well enough by then to fuck me properly.” He smirked, and John growled, the blankness on his face twisting briefly away to something darker, something feral. His own monster, if Santino could learn how to command it: he’d need patience and care, and it’d be a dangerous game to play. Still. This time, he liked the odds.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


End file.
